The Breath of Dawn Read online

  He’d keep the crib Rick built that converted to a bed, but he needed to order everything else. Consuela could outfit the kitchen—provided he got her on a plane. He might have to personally escort her. Maybe bodily. He entered the kitchen and saw another open door. Apparently Quinn was braving the cellar again. Gutsy little thing.

  “Quinn?” he called from the top. He heard shuffling, and she came to the foot of the stairs. Though an attempt had been made at pulling her hair back, it didn’t make a big difference. Put her in a Tinker Bell costume and she’d be a dark elf ready for mischief. He had to work for words—something he’d rarely experienced.

  “No more pirate?”

  Either she’d read his mind on costumes or seen him in action. “You saw?”

  “Aye, matey. Quite by accident.”

  His mouth twitched at her accent. “Not bad.”

  He descended. Some of the musty smell had dissipated and her orange-and-vanilla-scented shampoo or lotion or body wash reached him. He searched her face for signs of pique from their last encounter. It appeared safe to proceed. “I hired a private courier to hand deliver RaeAnne’s locket.”

  “Oh. I never thought of that.”

  “If he survives the flight, she’ll have it today.”

  She cast him a half-amused, half-irritated look.

  “And I apologize for the other night. I was curt.”

  “I caught you at a bad time. And invaded your privacy.”

  He shook his head. “I have no privacy. I pretend I can hide, but there’s no such thing.”

  Something that looked like fear moved through her eyes, but she masked it. “Saving mega corporations and writing bestsellers doesn’t help, I guess.”

  He acknowledged that, then changed the subject. “You’ve made some progress down here.”

  “Already filled the Dumpster once. Straitjackets, hypodermics, lots of rubber tubing.”

  “I hope it wasn’t all that way.”

  “The docile ones probably sat in the sunshine and drooled.”

  Again she surprised him. He hadn’t met many women as cynical as he.

  She rested her hands on her hips. “So what did you want?”

  “I came to discuss Thanksgiving.”

  “Discuss?”

  “I need to warn you my family might be setting us up.” He caught a wash of disappointment in her face. Not a reaction he’d expected.

  “Forewarned is forearmed.” Hoisting the clanking storage tub, she said, “Excuse me. More bedpans.”

  He moved aside and stared as she mounted the stairs. Pretty good power-to-mass ratio. And if he wasn’t mistaken, she’d just firmly dissed him.

  He looked around the dimly lit cellar, up at strings of cobweb adrift on spectral breaths—or the draft of Quinn’s return as she pressed past without a word.

  “The other thing,” he said, “is Noelle’s challenged in the kitchen.”

  “I know. She’s pregnant.”

  “That too.”

  “Too?” She glanced up.

  “Basically, she’s an awful cook. I love her, but that’s the bare truth. The less she has to do with the meal, the better.”

  Quinn raised her eyebrows.

  “Just saying. Rick’s not bad, and I’ll do what I can. But we’ll spare Noelle.”

  “Okay.” She actually seemed fine with it, in spite of his warning.

  “Can I help you here?”

  She stood for a moment, tapping her chin with a gloved thumb. “I guess we could remove the beds crowding the stairs.”

  “Moving furniture is kind of our thing.”

  She shot him a glance, but no, he hadn’t meant thing-thing.

  He cleared his throat. “They won’t be light.”

  “That’s why you can help.”

  Otherwise not so much. A refreshing change, though in fairness, her other request had been for RaeAnne. He unbuttoned his shirt sleeves and rolled the cuffs. They gripped the bed nearest the stairs and, straining hard, dragged it off the lower one. She rearranged her grip and, stepping onto the first stair, wobbled a little, then righted.

  This was not going to work. Even if he bore the brunt as he had the cabinet, the bed was the kind of heavy that loosened joints. She’d never remove them all. “Do you have a plan for these?”

  “Not immediately.”

  “Then set it down.” He eyed the two dozen or so iron beds, some with shackles, some missing springs. He couldn’t imagine a market for them, and it shouldn’t fall on her to deal with it. “If we consolidate the beds, you can get at whatever you want down here and leave the rest.”

  “I thought you needed it cleaned out.”

  He shrugged. “I’ll keep the hutch over the door so Livie can’t get in.”

  “I wish you’d said so before the bedpans.” She wrinkled her nose.

  He raised an eyebrow. “No collectors for those?”

  “Ugh. There might be.”

  She turned toward a giant old boiler. “Since that’s not moving, either, let’s pack the beds over there.”

  He nodded. “Bring the lantern.”

  Light beams swayed as she carried the source, illuminating something in the far corner—a different sort of bed or seat, an old generator, and electric cables. Behind him, Quinn made a strangled sound as recognition registered.

  He clasped her arm and said, “Some cultures drilled holes in skulls to let evil spirits out. Seems barbaric, but they were acting within their understanding to relieve mental suffering. Electroshock was part of medicine’s search for cures and answers.”

  “It’s so . . . One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”

  “That’s how it’s been portrayed. And maybe how it was. But the purpose wasn’t torture. This isn’t Auschwitz.”

  “I can feel it though. The horror.” She shot a glance behind her, as though something repulsive brushed her.

  “Forget this.” He turned her. “Let’s seal up the cellar—”

  “No.” Steel came back into her arm, her shoulders. “These were real people.”

  “They’re gone now.”

  “But where? And what happened here?” Urgency pulsed in her throat. The starbursts in her eyes seemed alight with fire. “Why does it feel so bad?”

  He searched her face, seeing real distress. It was a lot of old junk in his mind, but it obviously triggered something in hers. “I don’t know. But I know someone who might. A historian.” He hadn’t thought of Dr. Jenkins in ages. “I can contact him if you want.”

  “Yes.” She nodded after a moment. “I want to know.”

  Her scent reached up to him again, her arm warm in his hand. She was so— His mind hit the wall like a crash dummy.

  “Morgan?”

  Turning his back, he pressed a fist to his chest where the ache felt like a heart attack no defibrillation would return to normal function. It wasn’t that. He knew.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Beads of sweat pearled on his forehead and trickled down his temples. It hurt to draw breath. Hands clenched, he tried to will it away.

  “Morgan.” Fear raised her voice.

  He hadn’t had an attack for more than a year. Why now? In front of Quinn?

  She tried to get around where she could see him but couldn’t get through.

  His throat felt like sawdust. “Just give me a minute, okay?”

  “Are you sure? Because I’d really hate a dead body down here with everything else.”

  That forced a laugh and eased the stricture in his throat. Now he needed his chest to stop pounding, the dizziness and sweating to pass. “I promise not to die.” He turned enough for her to see he meant it.

  Face twisting, she said, “That was callous. What if you really are dying? Are you?”

  He swallowed. “No.”

  But she hovered as though he might keel over in spite of his promise. He jutted his chin toward a beige metal file cabinet. “Have you looked in those drawers? Might be answers in there.”

  �
�What?” She turned. “No, but—”

  “Go see.”

  She frowned at him, then went. Squeezing between two metal desks, she reached the file cabinet and pulled one drawer after another. By the hollow drag he could tell they were empty. “Nothing but dust,” she said, until she reached the bottom drawer. “There’s some crispy Scotch tape in this one.” She felt inside. “Something’s stuck to the top. I think it’s a key.”

  “To the medicine cabinet?”

  “It’s not a skeleton key.” She peeled it loose and held it out.

  Breathing easier, he leaned with one arm on a bed frame and said, “Could it go to the desks?” They had locking center drawers.

  She tried it in the first desk drawer and then the other. That one opened. He watched her grow still, and then in the dim light of the lantern, she removed a journal. Their eyes met. Once again they connected in discovery. The constriction released his chest.

  “Could be your answers.” He almost had his voice under control again.

  She held it nearer the light. “It’s not connected to the asylum.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The name on the plate is Veronica Greenwald. Same as the mail upstairs.”

  He made a slow nod. “Guess the old gal got down here after all.”

  Quinn eyed Morgan, aware he’d diverted her attention. He seemed mostly recovered from whatever it was and obviously didn’t want to talk about it. Maybe he had episodes that altered his moods and caused these symptoms. If bad enough, that could make him a recluse, though she was beginning to think that was some kind of publishing hype.

  He nodded at the journal. “What will you do with that?”

  “I’ll have to call RaeAnne. There are other items she hasn’t decided about.”

  “You could surprise her.”

  “Send it?”

  “Take it.”

  “In person?”

  “It’ll cost less for me to send you than to hire another courier.”

  As if she would begin to ask that. “It’s not your responsibility.”

  He sent her a look.

  “I had no idea you’d go to such extremes last time. I didn’t know there were such extremes.”

  He hung his hands on his hips. “Look, Quinn. There are no secrets here. I can afford to fly you to RaeAnne.”

  “But why would you?” It didn’t make sense that he’d take offense at her previous request and now want to help in any way.

  He must have read her confusion, because he said, “I was dealing with other things the last time. It came out on you, and I’m sorry. I’m happy to facilitate this process.”

  She looked away from his searching gaze. “There might be more things Vera hid down here. There’s no sense doing anything before I’m finished.” Then she turned back. “When are you moving in?”

  “Not as soon as I thought. I’ll be out of town for a week or two.” He scanned the cellar. “Take your time and don’t stress over this. Okay? As far as I’m concerned, it’s finished.”

  Didn’t she wish. “Okay.”

  He checked his watch—a Rolex? Cartier? Crown jewels?—and said, “I need to go. Let me know what you decide and . . . be careful down here. I don’t want a dead body either.” Something passed through his eyes that marred the humor.

  She gave him a little shove. “Would you go, please?” She pulled the crushed medical mask from her pocket, where she’d stuffed it when she heard his voice. But she didn’t go back to work. The cellar felt creepy again, and even though he was only repeating her words, it was too close to the fears plaguing her since Hannah’s call.

  She took the journal up to the kitchen, studied the red leather cover and nameplate. Didn’t Vera realize someone could have hauled this off without knowing it was there? Or had she wanted that? At any rate it wasn’t as weird as hiding the locket in a mousehole. On the other hand, no thief would look there. Maybe Vera knew exactly where her treasures were but died before she could tell RaeAnne. There was a lesson in that.

  So now what? Morgan’s offer troubled her on a lot of levels. He seemed to want to pay for anything he did for her, buying the furniture and flying her to RaeAnne. His mixed signals were harder to roll with than she made it seem. And when he’d suffered whatever it was, just now in the cellar, she wanted to wrap him in her arms and make the bad thing go away.

  The other thing that troubled her, the point that worked its way in like a splinter under a nail, was an airline ticket would put her name on a manifest. She couldn’t tell if that concern was paranoia or being careful. If Markham was looking for her, she might be no safer in her bed than on a plane, except she wasn’t advertising her location at home.

  She clenched her fists, furious the man could still be impacting her life and decisions. If Morgan offered again, she’d do it. Markham was out. He was angry. But he was not omnipotent.

  CHAPTER

  7

  Morgan went home and showered off the sweat and dust and unease. Nothing like what happened in the cellar to underscore the foolishness of letting down his guard. Avoidance was the best defense he’d found—since he’d been sober. And drinking wasn’t an option since Kelsey’s arrangement with God made it impossible.

  Long before bourbon or vodka or gin could infuse his blood, he’d be puking it up, an instantaneous reaction he’d quit battling. The best guess the doctors had was that sobering up and boosting his immune system for the bone-marrow donation had created a sensitivity to alcohol, an allergic reaction. But Kelsey had prayed for him to get sick when he drank, and frankly that was more believable. From his dying child’s lips to God’s ear.

  Coming out of the bathroom clean and dressed in fresh clothes, he watched Livie kneeling on the floor and drawing lines and circles with a red crayon on a paper and telling him what they were, because they looked so much like lines and circles. If Kelsey’s death hadn’t reunited him with Jill, he wouldn’t have Livie. He wouldn’t have this heartache, wouldn’t have this joy. Why did every bright cloud have a dark lining?

  “Come on, honeybee. Let’s have dinner.”

  He gave her Cheerios and grapes and sat with her while she ate. Then he took her to the main house and snuggled with her in the overstuffed recliner. In seconds, Liam found the side not occupied and burrowed in. Morgan took a deep breath and settled his soul.

  If someone had told him he’d be spending Saturday evenings with Rick and Noelle in praise and worship, he would have scoffed mightily. But he knew what happened when the mighty scoffed. With Rick leading on guitar and Noelle playing piano, he sat among their friends, the two dozy kids plastered to his chest.

  “. . . He will raise you up on eagle’s wings, bear you on the breath of dawn . . .”

  Voices blended and soared, faithful hands swayed. He turned his face and kissed the top of Livie’s head, gratitude coursing through him. For this child he’d offer praise and worship and supplication to God. He breathed her scent like incense burned on the altar of his heart.

  When he opened his eyes, Rick had lifted the guitar strap over his neck and laid the instrument in the case. The fire had burned to coals and both children slept soundly. The joy and serenity the guests carried out were real, but he couldn’t entirely get there. He’d come so far from the reckless ne’er-do-well, but, like freedom, courage was another word for nothing left to lose.

  Rick peeled Liam off and carried his sleeping son up to bed. Noelle looked better than she had in days—praise did that for her. Funny, considering she’d been highly allergic to religion when she arrived, making his cynical faith look pious. She whispered good-night and brushed a hand over Livie’s damp hair.

  Wondering how he’d make himself get on a plane and fly miles away, he bundled his sleeping daughter warmly for their trek to the cabin. Inside, he laid Livie in her crib, stood another moment watching her breathe, then went to his own room and turned on the monitor so he could hear her breathe all night.

  Since Morgan would be out of town,
Quinn gave herself a break from the cellar. She focused on listing the collectibles, decorative items, small furnishings, and vintage clothes. She had gathered as much from Vera’s as she might have from multiple sources. In spite of everything she had to wade through, Vera’s estate was, in fact, a gold mine.

  All the work she’d put in would be well accounted for, and she should have felt great. But looking around her warehouse, she realized she’d collected enough merchandise to suffer an actual loss if anything happened, if not in expenditure, then at least in potential sales. Frowning, she reminded herself again that the chances of being located were small.

  Except for secure things like the IRS records and her PayPal account, she practically lived off the grid. While law enforcement had ways to subpoena those records, an individual shouldn’t. If she had no contact with people who already knew next to nothing, she’d be as invisible as a person could be with real bones and blood and attitude.

  It wouldn’t hurt, however, to follow up on the possibility of a dog. Leaving off for the day, she headed for the nearest animal shelter, more appropriately called a rescue, since it was run privately and the dogs showed their former circumstances in hung heads, drooping tails, and low growls. Breathing the scent of fur, feces, and fear, even though the kennels were clean and spacious, she moved from one to another, making herself available and searching for a spark.

  With small, lacy snowflakes falling around her, she crouched at the end of a run, and the brown, bristly dog at the end pulled one lip back. It was more a twitch than a snarl. Reflex, not intention, but with the same result. She stood up and moved on.

  Maybe they sensed her ambivalence, because none approached when she crouched at the ends of their runs. It might have been different if they were loose in the yard, but because of their unpredictability, they didn’t mingle with each other or new prospective companions. She would have to come back several times before having actual contact. Her heart went out to them, while at the same time she wondered how appropriate her situation would be toward their restoration.